


Requiem for Two

by luredin



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Epistolary, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, I'm Sorry, Implied Relationships, I’m not crying you’re crying, M/M, Minor Character(s), Not Happy, POV Multiple, Poor Charles, Poor Erik, Telepathic Bond, Timeline What Timeline, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-02 02:50:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15787434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luredin/pseuds/luredin
Summary: Mystique never thought this day would come.Forever torn between warring loyalties—a past and a present that cannot ever be reconciled—she is asked to complete one last mission, a favor that just might break her.In the end, it just might break them all.





	Requiem for Two

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been sitting on this story for a very long time. I decided to dust off the cobwebs and finish it recently. Please don’t hate me!
> 
> As far as the timeline is concerned, this story acknowledges the events of First Class and then your guess is as good as mine!

Mystique is halfway around the world when it happens. Azazel sends word: _come immediately_. By the time she reaches the compound, almost two days have gone by, and the story is splashed across every news outlet in the country, possibly the world. _Radical Mutant Terrorist, Erik Lehnsherr, aka Magneto, Mortally Wounded at UN Summit_. She assumes, naturally, that the story is a gross exaggeration. She can barely imagine Magneto wounded, let alone _mortally_. The thought is absurd. Besides, Az would've told her if...He would have come for her himself, wouldn't he?

So Mystique arrives ready to yell, to lash out at Magneto for his brashness, his foolishness—to even channel some of Charles if she needs to—to say whatever she needs to say to get him to understand that continually risking his life for The Cause is not always the right path. Especially when she is not right there by his side. But the shadows inside the bunker are long, and one look at Az's face is all she needs. She freezes just inside the doorway and loses her balance for a moment, as if she's just been kicked in the stomach. "Is he..?" She is unable to finish the sentence. The relief flooding through her body as Azazel shakes his head no is shocking in its intensity. 

"Why didn't you come for me?" She manages to force out the words in a strangled voice, trying to keep her anger in check. Azazel doesn't reply. It's Pyro who steps out from the dark corner—how had she not noticed him there?—and speaks. 

"Az has been busy, Mystique. Every mutant doctor...every specialist he could find has already been brought here." 

"And...? And you're telling me that no one is able to...to fix him?" She wants to say _save him_ but the words are too close to the truth and cannot escape the lump in her throat. There is only silence. Az steps closer to her and she unconsciously reaches out her hand, drawing him to herself for strength. She leans against his solid body, suddenly feeling very small and very young. 

"Take me to him," she whispers. 

——— 

Magneto is lying in his bed on his back with his eyes closed. Despite the weariness in his bones he still senses the moment she walks into the room. His mind has not dulled, but his body is rebelling against its confines. His skin feels like a fire burning in on itself, scarring him deep inside. He opens his eyes to take in her cool blue form like a balm. He sighs.

Mystique comes to the edge of his bed and bends, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His helmet is still on—and he doesn’t really know why—and he can glimpse the fraying edge of fuchsia draped carelessly across the foot of the bed. Everything seems humorless and pointless and _wrong_ all of the sudden. He aches and coughs and turns his head to the side. Mystique still hasn’t said a word. He’ll be the one to break the ice; he’ll be the one to let her know that it’s going to be alright. He always does; it always is. _But maybe not this time_. 

“Hello, my darling.” His voice is raspy and thick and hearing it startles himself. Mystique sits down on the edge of the bed, carefully. He’s fragile, he realizes. He’s liable to break and she knows it. Isn’t that a horrifying thought? He can’t help the bitter laugh that tries to escape. 

“What do you need me to do?” Mystique is never one to mince words. 

“Let’s not fall to pieces yet, my dear.” He reaches for her hand and attempts to squeeze it in his own, but he realizes belatedly that the movement takes too much effort, so he only rests his hand above hers on the bedsheet. She moves her other hand to cover his, sandwiches his palm between her long dark fingers and holds him tightly. “They tell me I’m reaching the end, then.” 

“I don’t believe—Az...” 

Magneto shushes her like a father a hushing a daughter, a lover comforting a friend. She visibly bites back her words, doesn’t try to argue with him. 

“What do you need me to do?” She repeats. 

Magneto thinks about the question. He knows objectively there is nothing that she _can_ do to make this situation any better. But if this is truly the end, there is one thing he wants her to do, needs her to do even though he knows she won’t be happy about it. “Inside my dresser—there—in the top drawer—“ She moves catlike across the room and reaches inside the drawer. He nods as she pulls out the box. It’s small and silver and indestructible. And it’s time. 

“I need you to take it to him,” he says. His voice is stronger than it was a minute ago. He knows he must be direct. He doesn’t need to say who ‘he’ is, but Mystique still turns wide, unbelieving eyes on him. 

“Not now. Later. After.” There is a pleading edge creeping into her voice. “He can wait.” 

“No, my dear. I need you to do this for me now.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he continues speaking. “I promise I will still be here when you return.” She still looks uncertain, unwillingly to leave him. He shakes his head. 

“Please, Mystique. Do this for me.” 

——— 

Charles is sitting behind the large oak desk in his study when he first becomes aware of the gentle tug at his consciousness, startlingly familiar and yet foreign at the same time. He glances up at the security screen, surprised to find the two mutants standing at the front door of the school, waiting for him to acknowledge their presence. Knocking usually isn't either of their strong suits. He instantly feels tension and a foreboding feeling begin to knot within himself.

_Raven?_ He floats out, cautiously, questioning. He watches the screen as her form shifts for the briefest of seconds into the blonde-haired girl he knew as a child before returning to her natural blue state. If he'd blinked he would have missed it. She shoots back a firm _no_ , and he gets the message. He sighs. _Jean, would you kindly show our guests to my study, please?_ He closes the book he was reading in the dim lamplight and waits. 

When the door opens he’s surprised to see Raven’s hand grasping Azazel’s. Her eyes are glassy and her shoulders are hunched, and there’s a fragility in her stance, as if she’s protecting herself. From what? From him? 

“Professor...?” Jean says. He glances in her direction and gives a curt nod. He can tell she’s reluctant to go, to leave him alone with the two other mutants. He shoots her a brief _thank you_ and returns his eyes to Raven. Azazel has stepped aside to let Jean pass, and the door closes with a soft click behind her. He then squeezes Raven’s hand and takes up a standing position next to the door, watchful, guarding, waiting. 

Raven steps further into the room. She’s squared her shoulders and is breathing deeply now. All of her focus is on Charles. 

“What is it, Raven? What’s happened?” He mentally chides himself for using her childhood name out loud. She is anxious and something else—sad? He feels the sadness around her edges, feels it trickling out in tiny rivulets, lapping softly at his mind. He points to the chair across from him, the one next to his chess set. It’s not his original chest set; it's not _their_ chess set—that one was lost or destroyed years ago. This is a new set. He rarely plays anymore, though. 

Raven sits down in the chair and begins talking. He hears her, at first, calmly explaining to him what the news outlets have been reporting all day. Erik Lehnsherr, wounded, upon his death bed. Charles’ blood turns frigid and his ribs contract, caging his heart inside his chest and holding it tight. She’s still talking but he’s stopped listening. All he can hear is the roar of white noise inside his mind that’s threatening to drown out this reality. Has it been seconds? Minutes? He is unsure how long he stays that way, listening to everything and nothing at the same time. Eventually he becomes aware that she is asking him a question. 

"Will you come back with me?" she repeats, sounding more like his Raven than either of them would care to admit. Charles hesitates because he can't think of a good enough reason to say no. But he also cannot bring himself to say yes. Raven reads him like an open book, and the displeasure that radiates off of her is somewhat staggering. There is an icy edge to her voice when she finally realizes she isn't going to get an answer. "You're a coward, Charles." 

He doesn't try to argue the point. It's not entirely cowardice that keeps him immobile. He's selfish, that's what he is. He doesn't think he can bear the sight of Erik now. He can't even bring himself to think the word, _dying_ ; how would he survive the pain of physically being there when it happens? 

Raven sighs and glances down at the small metal container she’s been holding clutched in her lap. She lays a hand lightly across the top. Charles knows some kind of debate is warring inside of her, but as to what it is he doesn’t know, wouldn’t dare try to find out. He waits. He doesn’t have any words anyway. He feels hollowed out and empty inside aside from the anger that is rising like bile in the back of his throat. 

Raven stands suddenly, decision made. She thrusts the metal box towards Charles. “Magneto wanted me to give you this.” 

Charles reaches across the desk and grasps the box. It’s smooth and cool to the touch. He immediately sets it down on his desk, relieved to let go of even this brief connection to Erik. He is aware enough to be ashamed of this, though. “Raven, I...” 

“Don’t, Charles. Just, don’t.” She turns her back to him, standing straight and tall, a fierce blue wall that he learned long ago he should never attempt to traverse. She extends her arm to Azazel. “C’mon, Az, we’re finished here.” 

“Wait, please!” Charles opens the drawer at his side and reaches in, desperate at least to give her this much. Raven stops, but her posture doesn’t relax as she glances back over her shoulder. “Please...” He says, handing her an intricately carved mahogany box. “For Erik.” 

She frowns but takes the box and the paper envelope he hands her as well. She doesn’t say anything as she turns away again and walks to the door. Charles watches helplessly as her fingers twine with Azazel’s, and, in another second, they disappear in puff of smoke. Raven’s presence echoes even in her absence, a ghost. A memory of another time in Westchester that haunts him still. 

He doesn’t change his mind though. No, he didn’t try to stop her. He didn’t ask to go with them. He still knows that he cannot be there when it happens—at least not physically, but if there is another way, he’ll find it. 

Charles will do what he can. 

——— 

Mystique slips quietly back into Magneto's room, clutching the small wooden box that Charles had entrusted to her against her chest. He is asleep, and her first impulse is to let him continue sleeping. But no, this is important. She pulls the chair next to his bed closer and sits down with the box, and the envelope containing the key, on her lap. She reaches out, her long blue fingers gently stroking the back of his wrinkled hand. 

Magneto stirs and opens his eyes. It takes a moment for the hazy cloud of confusion to lift, but once it does, he trains his eyes onto her face, as clear and bright and focused as they've ever been. "Hello, beautiful," he whispers hoarsely. 

Mystique smiles back at him with a look—not of adoration, no, because those days have long past—but with a look of comfortable ease, a contentment. No matter what wars they've fought between each other, or with the world, or over Charles, they will always have this. An understanding that they are their truest, best selves when they are naked and alone but together like this. Her heart aches with the knowledge that this time is coming to an end, and that no one else will ever know her or believe in her or love her as unconditionally as Magneto has. 

Mystique clears her throat and begins. "Charles has sent this for you." She motions to the box on her lap. She doesn't add that Charles was unable to come; she won't make excuses for him. She doesn't feel the need to state the obvious. "Do you want me to open it?" 

Magneto nods. She slips the key out of the little paper envelope and inserts it into the lock. The lid opens with a faint squeak. She smiles a sad smile, looking at the contents. She turns the open box toward him so that he may also see the stack of neatly folded letters therein. 

Magneto huffs out a laugh. "Damn old fools." 

Mystique takes the letter closest to the top and inclines her head, questioning. He nods assent. Although, as she sets the box down on the floor and is carefully removing the letter from its envelope, Magneto reaches for her wrist and stops her. 

"Would you mind...terribly?" He waves his hand in her general direction and says no more. But she knows what he wants. She instantly shifts form, turning into the spitting image of Charles as she saw him only a short time ago. Magneto smiles and shakes his head. "No, Raven," he says gently. 

She hesitates, only because it hurts so much suddenly to think of them all, the way they were then—in the beginning. She holds back a tear, and then she shifts form again. 

——— 

Erik knows it's foolish, so foolish, and not real. But he can't help it, the pang of loneliness and longing and loss he feels now as he gazes at Charles' face. It's a face he's only seen in his memories these decades gone by. Charles is young, full of optimism and promise. His eyes are blue, bluer than the sea, and his hair falls in a soft cascade across his forehead. Erik longs to run his fingers through it, but he is too weak or this is too unreal. Instead he simply points to the helmet on his head, and Charles seems only too happy to oblige. 

Once the helmet is gone, set aside on the night table, Erik leans back onto his pillow and stares mutely. He's so very tired and this is perhaps too overwhelming. He closes his eyes and feels Charles' fingers wrap around his, grasping his hand tightly. 

"Thank you," he says with more effort than speaking should require. Erik is talking not to the ghost of his past, but to Raven, without whom his life would have been very lonely indeed. He wonders distractedly if she will go back to Charles for good now, but he doesn't think so. He worries about what will happen to her. His brow furrows at the thought that she will be lost, adrift without having both he and Charles to anchor the dark and light parts of her soul within the world now. 

Raven doesn't reply but she squeezes his hand, and Erik knows that she understands. He is startled when she begins reading the letter in a voice he has not heard in a very long time, since before Cuba. Charles' voice is warm and golden, like honey, and Erik struggles to catch his breath at the sound. 

_Westchester. 10th February 2016._

_My dearest Erik,_

_I hope that you are well, but I fear that you are not. Your recent activities have garnered quite a bit of media attention. And, while you and I both learned a very long time ago to never take anything in the news at face value, I fear in this they are not mistaken. You are not well—_

The sound of Charles' voice is like a balm to Erik's tired self. His breathing becomes more even, and he feels his hand begin to slip away from Raven's, but he isn't worried. 

_—You and I are too old for this, Erik. I've missed you. I've missed you most these last few years it seems. I have hope, as always, that you and I might finally and forever put our differences aside. Now, I think, is the time that our paths may finally come together, might stay together til the end. Will you come to me? I know that there is more time left for us yet. Let's not waste anymore._

_Come home, old friend._

_Yours always,  
Charles_

Erik feels very warm. He feels safe, and not alone. A calm descends around him and over him and through him. His mind is blanketed in a soft caress, like waves lapping gently at an infinite shore. He is enveloped in an endless sea of blue. He smiles faintly, his eyes still closed, because he knows. _He knows _. And while there are a thousand things he wants to say, to think, to express in this moment, there is no time. Erik breathes out one last, lingering sigh. His final word is, simply,__

__"Yes."_ _

__———_ _

__Raven knows as she is reading Charles' letter that Erik is slipping away. Her voice trembles as she reaches the end; his hand has fallen limp against the bed. She wants desperately to clutch at it, to make him stay. His breath is shaky and she can barely make out his final word, but once she does, she finally breaks inside. She knows without having to check that he is gone now. Her tears come freely, unbidden and hot. The letter flutters to the floor, instantly forgotten. She buries her face in her hands, then into the side of the bed as she sobs, one long arm stretched protectively across Erik's chest._ _

__Raven doesn't know how long she stays that way. Her tears have run their course and have become mostly muffled sniffles but still she doesn't move until she feels Az's arm come round her shoulders. She raises her head and her eyes instantly lock onto his. He gives her a gentle tug and she rises, looking down one final time at Erik. She glances at the helmet on the night stand, but no, she decides she will leave him as he is. This is how she wants to remember him, as just a man. The first man to ever truly appreciate her real form, her outward beauty. The man who once gave her the strength to know her own self worth. Whatever else he was, whatever else had happened since that time was suddenly very small and unimportant._ _

__Raven bends over and picks up the discarded letter and places it back in the box. She knows she will not read the rest, not out of some displaced sense of propriety, but because she knows they will just hurt too much. She will return them to Charles when the time is right._ _

__Az leads her to the doorway, his hand warm and strong at the small of her back. It's there, at the door, when she is overcome with a desire to turn and look on Erik once more, that she realizes with surprise that the desire is not her own._ _

__"Oh, Charles!" She gasps as she turns around and complies._ _

__———_ _

Charles wouldn’t normally—but this, this is different. He reaches out tentatively with his mind across the vast divide until he finds her, brushes against her swirling, complex consciousness, and he waits. She doesn’t know he’s there, and that’s the way it should be. It’s not Raven he’s chasing after anyway. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. He feels it, the second the helmet is removed and Erik’s mind crashes into his, both the tempest and the port in the storm. Charles takes a deep breath and shivers. Erik’s weariness washes over him. Charles reels, momentarily disoriented before he regains his composure. He nudges, gently, cautiously, and Erik lets him in, probably without even consciously knowing it. That’s ok. _It’s alright_ , Charles tells himself. It will all be over soon. What is needed now is calm. Calm and focus. 

Charles remembers the first time. Not that night in the water. Not Shaw. But the first _real_ time. In the place between rage and serenity, that is where he waits. Erik’s brightest memories, like a glowing moon over a low tide—that’s where Charles holds him now. That’s where they meet for one last time. 

He shudders within himself as he hears Erik breathe out his final _“yes.”_

Charles cries out and shuts his eyes as his grief swallows him whole. He’s floating in an empty blackness, and it’s only the sound of Raven’s tears, distant but powerful enough to anchor him to the present, that save him from the darkness. He knows he should go. There’s no place for him alongside her sadness, in the space meant for her and Erik alone. But he can’t help himself. 

Just once more. He needs to see Erik one last time. So Charles stops Raven at the door, turns her around with the will of his mind. Her thoughts weave in and out of his own. They tangle in the thorny bits of themselves, but she doesn’t fight him. Not on this; not this time. 

——— 

_Three Weeks Later._

Charles is sitting behind his desk in his office. The box Erik had delivered to him is there before him, still unopened. Charles picks it up and turns it over in his hands. The shiny, reflective surface is seamless in design. It’s flawless craftsmanship and opening it is a bit of a mystery. Charles studies each side for what feels like the hundredth time. But today his thumb ghosts over the front panel and catches on a scratch that he’s never noticed before. He squints and brings the box closer to see. Not a scratch. Two scratches. Two perfectly equal lines, forming an X. 

He smiles and presses his thumb over top of the X. The lid springs from nowhere and opens, revealing the compartment inside. Charles is not surprised to see the contents—a stack of letters, not unlike his own. He reaches down to the bottom of the box and pulls out the very last letter there... 

_July 23, 1963_

_Charles,_

_I had the dream again last night. I was on the beach, in Cuba, with you. But when I woke, nothing had changed...what I have taken from you, if it were ever in my power to restore, know that I would, in a heartbeat. And if I was a man who could harbor regrets for his past choices, my only regret would be how things ended between you and I. But the only thing I have to give you now is this..._

_Raven is well. She grows more confident in her own skin everyday. She is breathtaking, and she is strong, and I know that’s because of you, because of all you have given to her over the years. She has more of you in her than she will ever admit._

_She won’t stay angry forever, Charles. I promise you that. Forgiveness will come one day. Forgiveness will wash us all clean. And until that day my friend, know that if you ever need me, I am yours,_

_Erik Lehnsherr_

——— 

_Eight Month’s Later_

The leaves crunch under the students feet as they run across the lawn. Red and gold and deep russet brown. A noisy, cacophony of East Coast color and distinctive autumn sounds. Charles has wheeled himself onto the veranda over-looking the wide expanse that sweeps southward to the lake. There is a red-checked wool blanket across his lap but he still shivers. He thinks he’s daydreaming at first—a bit of nostalgia to warm the chill air—when he feels the familiar mind brush against his. Reticent. Unsure. He snaps his eyes to the west and sees her immediately. 

Raven is walking up the driveway slowly, and several children stop their play to openly gape at the elusive blue mutant heading straight for their professor. Charles turns his chair to meet her at the top of the steps. He can see that she’s carrying a small box—his mahogany box—and that she is smiling faintly. She looks up at him and her smile deepens into something more rare, something almost bright, and Charles is surprised to feel in it her sincerity. 

This then--an olive branch in the rapidly approaching twilight. 

[fin]

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta’d. Your kudos and comments are so appreciated!
> 
> My [Tumblr](http://luredin.tumblr.com)


End file.
